


The Copenhagen Protocol

by puella_nerdii



Series: Self-Evident [9]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Challenge Response, Character Study, Drama, Established Relationship, Future Fic, Humor, M/M, Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-11-15
Updated: 2009-11-15
Packaged: 2017-10-03 00:27:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,636
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12216
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/puella_nerdii/pseuds/puella_nerdii
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>England helps America with an emergency rewrite of a speech -- but finds that America's learned quite a bit these last few years.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Copenhagen Protocol

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Haro for the 2009 round of [](http:)Hetalia Sunshine on Livejournal, for the following prompt: _I'd like some established relationship fic between these two. America is actually a pretty smart guy but his head is in the clouds and often it doesn't really show -- so England tries to help America take his job as a nation more seriously and improve his image with the rest of the world. Can contain references to current events, e.g. the US's current administration trying to fix international diplomatic relations. Humor and fluff appreciated, but also some seriousness please!_

**February 27, 2013**

“Ta-da!” America says, slapping the file folder down on the table. Maybe he slaps it down a little _too_ hard, because a few of the loose papers flutter into England’s lap, and one even ends up resting on his head for a second. America snatches the papers back up and shuffles them into the folder before England can say anything about picking up after himself and how he shouldn’t butcher trees for the sake of giving himself more ways to look like a slob or something like that. (He has some kind of lecture template written down somewhere, America swears. Kind of like Mad Libs, but less funny.)

This time, though, all England says is, “And?”

“It’s the speech.” America hops up onto the edge of the desk, braces his feet on the nearest chair.

“America you’re going to knock that over—”

Grinning, America tips the chair back onto two legs—and brings it crashing back down on all four again before England has a coronary. Well, not that he’d have a coronary over a chair, probably, although there was that one. “The Copenhagen one. You know, the one I’m delivering Tuesday?”

“I still don’t see why you’re the keynote speaker,” England says, flipping the folder open. He furrows his forehead until the lines on it are almost as thick as his eyebrows. “You didn’t even _ratify_ Kyoto.”

“Well no,” he admits, “but this is Copenhagen. Different treaty.”

“Similar protocols.”

“Yeah. And I’m totally behind them this time, just like it says in the speech.” America leans forward, tries to see what England’s looking at now. Maybe he should’ve given England the flash drive instead of the folder to show he’s really serious about the carbon footprint thing, but England likes things he can touch, and America thought hey, couldn’t hurt. Besides, his laptop’s a piece of crap anyway, and America’s not sure if it could even run all the cool stuff he put into the presentation. Has England gotten to the graphs yet? If America does say so himself, those are some pretty excellent pie charts.

“So,” he says, because England’s still frowning. “What do you think? Come on.”

“America?”

“Uh-huh?”

England slides the folder back towards him. “This is your presentation on campaign finance reform.”

Oh.

Shit.

America laughs—or tries to, it comes out more as one really loud “ha!” and then putters off into a few weak chuckles—and hauls his briefcase into his lap, roots through it for the _right_ folder. “Hold on,” he says, “it’s in here somewhere…”

He hears England sigh. “Are you sure? Did you check before you left?”

“Jeez, England, what are you, my mom?”

England snorts. “That’s France.”

“Cute. A-ha!” He unearths a manila folder, flips through it—no, those are the educational reform proposals his boss wanted him to read up on, and the folder after that’s devoted to defense appropriations, and the one after that’s got his hotel information in it. At least he’s put them all in separate folders now. That’s progress, right?

“America?”

“Yep?”

“Did you bring the damned thing at all?”

Well, that’s that for the briefcase. America lets it thump back onto the table. “Don’t worry about it, England, I’ve got everything on flash drive.” And that’s in his pocket right now; he can feel it when he shifts his weight around.

—actually, maybe he should take the flash drive _out_ before he does that.

***

“Okay, maybe it’ll load on this one,” America says, and waits for the Mac to finish booting. Good old reliable Macs, right? They won’t give you the bluescreen of death or flash runtime error messages at you when you try to load a few slides. America crosses his fingers under the table.

England’s less optimistic, but saying that England’s less optimistic is like saying that the pope’s Catholic, or that Romano yells at anyone who uses that particular comparison within earshot. “And what does this computer have that the other six lack?”

Okay, America knew England was a hopeless case, but still, he can’t believe England just said that. He fixes England with his best _really?_ stare—he can arch his one eyebrow up pretty high, he’s found—and explains, “This computer’s a Mac, England. The other ones were PCs. Different OSes.”

“I know that,” England snaps. “But what fails on one platform isn’t likely to succeed on another—”

“Yeah it is, when you’ve got files that PCs can’t read or something.” The Mac beeps at both of them, and America pats the case. “Look, England, sometimes it’s about having the right tools for the job, and sometimes you’ve gotta look for different tools, think outside the box—”

America forgot just how dry England’s stare can get, like he’s trying to wither everything in sight. “You’re quoting an advertising campaign, aren’t you.”

“Maybe. Not the point.” He rubs the flash drive between his palms, mutters a few prayers to Steve Jobs, slots the drive into the machine. It shouldn’t take too long now. “The point is that sometimes you’ve got to think differently about problems. Try another approach.”

“And as gratifying as it is to hear you say that,” England says, “you’re still using a computer, and the data’s still corrupt.”

Wait, did England just say…? America shoves his hands into his back pockets, grinning. He wishes the Mac had finished doing what it’s doing a little earlier; oh, what he could’ve done if he’d gotten to record that. Well, the first part of the sentence, anyway. The second part—America glances at the screen, and at the silver RUNTIME ERROR message.

Well. At least the Mac popup windows look a little friendlier. Maybe it’s the font. This is awkward. America clears his throat. “You don’t think China has a machine running Linux or something, do you?”

“For fuck’s sake, America, if it’s not running on a Mac and it’s not running on a PC it damned well isn’t going to run on Linux.”

“Look, just because you’re married to your Telcom—”

“America, this isn’t about my Telcom!” England’s not crossing his arms anymore; his hands knot into fists at his temples, and America wonders if he should stop England from beating himself upside the head. Probably he should. And England might have a lot of hair, but he shouldn’t start ripping all that out, either. “This is about trying another approach.”

“That’s what I said,” America points out.

England yanks the flash drive out of the Mac.

“Hey!” America tries to lunge for it, but England’s standing behind the Mac now, and America knows he probably shouldn’t make a flying jump for something if there’s a computer positioned right where he’s going to land. Even if it’s Canada’s computer.

England pinches the flash drive between his fingers, like he’s afraid it’s going to bite him or drool on him, and says, “This isn’t a feasible avenue, America. Find another one.”

“Well now it’s not feasible, you didn’t shut its hard drive down like you’re supposed to,” America mutters. And England wonders why everything in his house breaks all the time: the garbage disposal, the toaster, the TV—the last one happened because England got drunk and put his foot through it, if America remembers correctly, but hey, that’s a kind of disrespect.

“Have you got another copy of that speech?” England asks.

America straightens up, scratches behind his ear. “Uh.” He tries to think. He knows he backed the thing up, he remembered to do that much. He backed it up on his flash drive, at least. “There’s my laptop,” he says, “which is actually back at home, funny story, so I was taking it in for repairs because it kept downloading porn—no, really, it was doing it on its own, stop looking at me like that.” It wasn’t even _good_ porn. Sheesh, America has some taste, give him a little credit here. “Anyway, I was supposed to pick it up before I flew out, but a truck overturned on 95 and of course everyone’s bottlenecking around it, and I have to take this crazy detour so I’ll catch the flight, period—”

England sighs. “You don’t have it.”

The itch behind America’s ear mounts. England’s not even making his shouting face, the one where he scrunches his eyebrows and screws up the corners of his mouth. America’s okay with the shouting face, partially because it makes England look like an angry caterpillar and partially because he knows what he’s in for with the angry face, he’s been handling the angry face since the first time he told England to go to hell. But this is—this is more of a _I shouldn’t have expected better of you_ face, and America just doesn’t like the way England’s eyes are lidded right now. “Well yeah, but like I said, there’s a reason.”

England flicks his fingers in the air, like he’s swatting something aside. “There’s always a reason, America. Regardless, you have to deliver that speech in two days, and you’ve—none of your material?”

“I have what I remember,” America says, hunching his shoulders up. “I mean, I was mostly talking about all the stuff I’m doing differently now. So I’d be ready for Copenhagen once it kicked in.”

“Such as?” England presses.

“You know.” America knows, too, he just has to think back a little on those meetings. It’s all about carbon emissions, he remembers that much. Greenhouse gas emissions, technically, but carbon’s faster to say. “Reducing carbon emissions. I’ve been working on that.”

He’s barely finished saying that before England hammers him with another question. “How?”

“Jesus, England, let me think.”

“You should know this, America.”

Okay, okay, okay, America screwed up, can they shift topics now? “God, now you really _do_ sound like my mom. Well, _a_ mom,” he corrects, “you don’t sound like France.”

“America, you need—” England begins, but America doesn’t let him finish.

“England. Chill. Look, so I don’t have the speech. But that’s okay, you know? I mean, sure, I have to pull a new one out of somewhere, but I can do that.” He does that a lot, truth be told. England’s about to open his mouth to object again, America can tell, but he holds his hand up before England can, because this is the important part. “I _did_ everything already. I hit the ten-percent-renewable-energy goal last year—I did, England. Some states are doing better than others, but I got there.”

“I’m not doubting your achievements, America,” England says.

“But—see,” America tries to explain, because England sniping away at him with questions like _how?_ and _such as?_ and all the rest sure doesn’t sound like support. “You’re just talking about all the stuff I’m _not_ doing. It’s like you and everyone else, you know, I can get a million plug-in cars on the road and commercialize clean-coal technology and research biofuels—all this stuff we’re talking about doing here, I’m _doing it_, but all I ever hear from you people—”

“America—” England tries to touch his arm, but America’s not having any of it; he brushes England’s hand away and walks the length of the table. Walking’s good, walking helps him work his ideas out, keeps him moving.

“All I ever hear from you people is what I didn’t do. Or what I did wrong. And it gets a little old. Seriously, I’m starting to think I could cure cancer and you guys would all bitch about how I wasn’t distributing the cure right or I should’ve figured it out sooner or I’ve priced it too high or I don’t even know but you’d find _some_ way to make it all about how I screwed up again, oh look at America and his stupid ideas, they’ve only been powering the whole _world_ for the last fifty-odd years—”

“_America_,” and England’s hand is clamped around his wrist, pulling him in close. “America, for god’s sake listen.”

“You listen first,” says America, but he doesn’t yank his hand away.

“I have been, you—” England sucks his breath in through his teeth. “I have been listening. You make it very hard not to hear you.”

“Ha, ha.”

“I’m being serious. And you’ve done—you’ve done well for yourself,” England says, even if it looks like his upper lip keeps wanting to stiffen. “I recognize that. We all do, to some extent.”

“Yeah, you do a real great job of showing it,” America mutters.

“We—no, _I_—I also recognize that you’re capable of. Well.” England coughs, his ears reddening a little. “You’re capable of more.”

…America blinks. America blinks a few times, actually.

“You are, you ingrate, and I thought you’d be the first to admit as much.”

“Well yeah, kind of,” he says, “but having you admit it’s a little different.”

England rolls his eyes, grabs him by the tail of his tie and yanks him down—America almost overbalances but catches himself in time, a few inches away from England’s nose. This close, England’s breath tickles America’s mouth, and America can’t help but laugh a little.

“Laugh all you like,” England says, twisting the tie between his fingers, “no doubt you find this all dreadfully amusing.”

More confusing than amusing, but hey, America can go with the last one. Besides, an England who emoted like a normal person wouldn’t be England. The tie’s weighing on the back of America’s neck now, dragging him closer, and from the way England’s smirking England knows it. Bastard. America smiles, too. “So you were complimenting me?” he says, to jog England’s memory.

“I suppose I was.” England looks about ready to roll his eyes, but he doesn’t. “I do see all you’ve done. I thought I made that clear.”

“Pretty clear,” America says, feels heat start to spark in his groin when he remembers just _how_ England, well, clarified things. Yeah. That’s a good memory. And from the way England’s fingers are crawling up his tie until they’re almost brushing his throat, it looks like history’s about to repeat itself. Which America can handle. –heh, handle. Even if he’s supposed to be mad at England right now. Except England’s saying things that are compliments even by normal-people standards, and it makes America want to thread his fingers through England’s hair, ruffle it a little.

“And I see how you can keep at it. You’ve reached your goals,” England says. “For the time being. But they’ve hardly ended, have they?”

“Nah.” There’s always new treaties drawn up after the old ones expire, aren’t there? New places to build and explore once you’ve run out of space where you were, new people to meet once you’ve run out of people near you.

“No, never,” England says, twirls America’s tie almost indulgently. “There’s always more for you, isn’t there.”

Inclining over like this is starting to strain the muscles in his neck, but America doesn’t mind so much. He raises his eyebrows, asks “You suggesting something?” in as low of a voice as he can. Well, as low as he can without sounding too silly.

“Yes,” England says, and draws him in until their lips almost touch—“I’m suggesting you reconstruct that speech.”

And pulls away.

“You _dick_,” America says, does his best not to splutter.

“Terribly. And you needn’t stand there gaping, I’ll help.”

“You just want credit on the keynote speech.”

England mutters something about “Nation who met the specifications of the Kyoto Protocol and the Nation who never bothered to ratify the damned thing.”

“New times, new treaty.” America claps England on the back. “Okay, let’s do this.”

***

“—_and have reinvested the revenue generated from our_—huh. _From our implementation of_—”

“Don’t say _from our implementation_ after _revenue_,” England interjects, “you sound as though you’re generating revenue from the implementation rather than the actual policy.”

“Nitpicky, aren’t we,” America says, but he highlights the passage and tweaks it: _the revenue generated from the cap-and-trade permit auction _. There, they’ll all understand what that is. Should he add _we implemented_ to the end? No, he decides, it’s clear enough from context.

England seems to think so, too, because he looks over America’s shoulder and murmurs something that sounds like agreement. They’ve relocated to England’s hotel room because the wireless signal’s stronger there, and America’s got England’s Telcom open and resting in his lap. (A Telcom. And England says he sucks at making sacrifices.) At least his boss puts all of his platforms and spreadsheets and pie charts online, so downloading everything he needed to hasn’t been too much of a hassle, though America still hasn’t found that cute dancing .gif of Mr. Coal Scrubber. England’s draped his tie and jacket over the chair, and America’s pants actually aren’t crumpled on the floor this time. (Look, laptops heat up, and when they’re actually in his lap the fabric of his pants gets itchy.)

“Okay.” America highlights what he just wrote and reads it back, sort of. “Have reinvested the revenue, yeah, got that—l_in clean energy and clean technology programs_, and then I say stuff about biofuels and start talking about hybrids and electric cars and all that?”

“Mm,” England says. “I’d discuss biofuels second, it’s a good transition into your discussion of alternate energy sources.”

“Right. Yeah. That works.” America starts typing again, and England doesn’t offer a whole lot of comments this time, just rests his chin on America’s shoulder and points out when he spells _emissions_ as _omissions_.

“But we’re trying to emit omissions, right?” America points out.

England groans. “I don’t know whether I ought to hit you or kiss you for that.”

“You could do the offended-debutante thing and do both.” America squints, leans back a little so he can take more of England in: the strands of hair sticking in his eyes, the angle of his collarbones, the splay of his fingers on the sheets. “I could buy you as an offended debutante.”

He half-expects England to get huffy, but England seems to consider that for a while. “Well,” he says, “I do cut a good figure in a corset.”

“You wha—”

“You ought to keep the section on your accomplishments brief, though,” England says. “The treaty’s about what you’re going to do rather than what you’ve already done, and it’s best to stick to the theme.”

America’s still a little stuck on the part about England in a corset, but he manages an “Okay.”

“_I know you think of me as the new idea guy, but let’s face it, new ideas are what we need now,_” England reads, scrolling down to the part of the speech that America’s only outlined. “Your diction’s abominable, but the point’s sound.”

“Well, how would you say it, ‘I possess sufficient awareness of your conception of—’ I give up, talking like that’s just weird.” America sticks his tongue out, he thinks the thing cramped up after twisting around all those words.

“Don’t be daft, there’s no need for you to talk like Japan,” England says. “_We’ve developed a number of tools to handle this crisis, but in the days to come, the most valuable of them will be innovation._”

“I’m going to sound like you if I say that.”

England shakes his head. “You’ll sound more like your boss. I was aiming for his tone.”

He’s right, America realizes as he types the phrase up, that _is_ the kind of thing his boss would say. He grins, shifts the laptop up a little higher on his legs, but the tingling in them’s not just from the laptop’s heat, he doesn’t think. “You were trying to help me sound like my boss?”

“I thought it—” England does the England-thing where he almost stammers over a word before he decides on the one that fits best and then says, “—advisable.” It’s almost cute, the way a grumpy old bulldog with sagging jowls is cute when he tries to mince around like a prize poodle. America reaches over and ruffles England’s hair again; he never gets tired of doing that, and if England really minded he’d swat America’s hand away a lot harder than he does now.

“Not like you,” America says. “Like my boss.” His grin keeps spreading until it feels like his entire face is lit up.

“He speaks well—oh do stop gloating, you’re not attractive when you’re insufferable.”

“Oh really,” and that’s when America makes a grab for England’s groin.

“That’s _cheating_ you wanker—”

_Wendy let me in I wanna be your friend, I want to guard your dreams and visions—_

“That’s my cell,” America says, slides off the bed and fumbles through his pants pocket until he finds it. He almost wants to wait before answering because Springsteen’s on _Together we could break this trap_ now and America really likes that part of the verse, but he flips it open (and tunes out England’s faint spluttering sounds in the background) and says, “Hello?”

“America?” It’s Denmark on the other line, and not just Denmark, judging from all the commotion in the background. America thinks he picks out Belgium’s and the Netherlands’s voices, raised in some kind of chant or drinking song or possibly both, and is that Finland singing? Must be, nobody else growls quite like he does.

“How’re you doing?” America asks.

“Great! Glad you asked. A bunch of us are having drinks downtown at NASA—the bar, not your agency—but it made us think of you, and Finland told me to ask you if you wanted in.”

America blinks. He’s been doing that a lot today. “You’re inviting me to a party?” he asks. Not that he minds the invitation, not that going out for drinks and dancing and whatever else in Copenhagen doesn’t sound like a great idea right about now, especially when he’s been staring at lacy hotel room curtains and a laptop screen for hours on end, but usually he just arrives at parties or stumbles into them, and the invitation gets extended through that. Maybe things really _are_ changing.

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees England frown, rest his hand on the front of the laptop.

“Sure, why not?” Denmark says, and the sound in the background swells; it’s not laughter, exactly, but it’s some kind of clamoring. “You’re the man of the hour, might as well get in some bonding time.”

There’s guffaws on the other line this time, and America hears Denmark yell, “I said _bonding_, Holland!”

And then he _thinks_ he hears (though he kind of hopes he heard it wrong), “Are you sure? I’ve got Canada tied up over here!”

England mouths, _Who_?

America covers the mouthpiece. “Denmark. He’s with the Netherlands and the other Nordics and maybe some other people, wanted to know if I wanted to have a few drinks, see the nightlife.”

“Ah. Yes.” England snaps the laptop shut.

“I don’t think they’d mind if you came with, you’re pretty tight with most of them—”

“America, that’s not the—never mind.” England’s got a whole catalog of sighs, and this one’s drawn-out and just a little huffy. “Do what you like.”

“I wasn’t going to ditch you.”

“You’ve still got a speech to write.”

He’s got a point, but America says, “I can finish it up tomorrow. I just need to pull up a few more facts, flesh it out…it’s not a long speech.” And he’s good at improvising. It’s like innovating, and he’s pushing innovation in this, anyway, so why not…

England shoves the laptop away and clambers to the edge of the bed, reaches for his tie.

“Whoa. Hey. England, what’s up?”

“If you’re going to amuse yourself,” England says crisply, “I might as well do something productive.”

“Get drunk, you mean,” America says. “You can do that with us.”

“Possibly.” England’s still not looking at him, not quite; he’s knotting his tie, or trying to, but the silk keeps slipping and the knot won’t hold right, so he curses and untangles the whole thing, redoing it.

“I mean, it’s a pretty cool bar, I’ve never been but apparently the inside’s all white and the cocktails glow and it’s kind of like Star Trek and this is totally about something else, isn’t it.” Great. Not that England being pissed at America is anything remotely close to new, but still.

“Perceptive of you.”

“I try. Look, just say what’s bugging you.” Why’s it so hard for England to do that, anyway? Of course, England _says_ he always tells America and that America just doesn’t listen, but America’s learned to tune those lectures out.

“America?” Denmark’s voice crackles over the phone.

“You’ve got a speech to write, America,” England snaps, abandons the tie-tying thing. “You’ve got responsibilities.”

“I know, and I’ll take care of them.”

“Hey, America?”

“_When_?” And England doesn’t just abandon the tie this time, he whips it off his neck and flings it to the mattress. It coils into a pile there, which undercuts the gesture. “It’s all very fine talk, America, but if you can’t commit yourself to action through writing a fucking speech I don’t see how—”

“It’s a speech, England! I have time!”

“It’s a sign of your commitment, and don’t you _dare_ call me a symbolism-obsessed bastard, it _means_ something when you stand in front of the world and say that yes, this is the course of action you will follow—”

“America,” Denmark asks, “is this a bad time?”

“Uh,” he says, “a little. Um. Yeah. It is. Sorry.”

And he clicks the phone shut.

“See?” America says. “Action.”

“…you could have told him you’d call back later,” England says, and ha, it’s his turn to blink.

“I’ll do it tomorrow.” He shrugs, rolls some of the knots and tension out of his shoulders. That feels better. “And we can all go drinking after. As long as you behave yourself. I mean, what am I thinking, leaving you unsupervised in a strange city?”

England’s apparently recovered enough to chuck a pillow at him, which America thinks he prefers to England throwing his clothes around in a fit. “I’m older than this fucking city, I’ll have you know.”

“I do know. You’re older than Jesus, yadda yadda.”

“Good, now I don’t have to say it again.” England frowns—well, he was already frowning, but this is a different kind of frown, the one where his eyebrows and mouth crinkle together instead of flattening out. “That was a rather quick reversal.”

“I’m a fast guy.”

“Certainly.”

“And I dunno, maybe you had a point somewhere in all that indignant Britishness. Or outraged debutante-ness.”

“Briton-ness,” England corrects him, “you apply –ness to the noun and not the adjective—”

America beams. “Then you’re ready to get back to work on the speech?”

“I suppose I am.”

…okay, throwing England off-balance is way too much fun. America might have to be responsible more often just so he can do that.

***

“We’ve developed a number of tools to handle this crisis, but in the days to come, the most valuable of them will be innovation,” America says, flipping to the last page of the speech. The slides behind him have stopped running by now; everyone got a kick out of Mr. Coal Scrubber, but he’s not as appropriate to this part of the address. Even without the audiovisuals, though, nobody looks like they’re dozing off. Except Greece, but he always looks like that, and anyway America thinks his eyes are open, since he seems to be nudging Japan.

“We can talk all we want about making do with what we have, but the best thing we can do is learn—learn about the world we’re in, and learn how we can keep it the kind of world we’d like to live in for years to come. Thank you.”

America waits.

And then they applaud.

\---

\--  


**Author's Note:**

> Most of the policies discussed in this fic are extrapolations from Obama's current energy policies; if they work out as planned, knock wood, everything America talks about in this fic should be happening by 2013. [](http:)Check out his website.
> 
> And NASA is a real bar in Copenhagen, too. Oh, Denmark.


End file.
